


This Truth

by suitesamba



Series: The "This" Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Times, M/M, mature themes, past Mary/John - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1675781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John dismantles wedding plans and Sherlock dismantles napkin swans - oh, and some sex too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 of my "This" series, in which Sherlock and John do not get interrupted by Mrs. Hudson bringing the client in on stag night, and things progress...as they should have.

ooOoo

Despite John spending the rest of the weekend dismantling wedding plans, he does – finally – put down his mobile and collapse onto the sofa beside Sherlock.

Sherlock perks up. He’s been reclining on the sofa for more than an hour, watching as John paces, mobile to his ear, telling one guest after another that the wedding has been cancelled. "No – no. Not a fight. Just…couldn’t go through with it. Second thoughts – right. No, she’s keeping the flat. I’m back at Baker Street. No, it’s fine. Really. I appreciate the offer but it’s fine. It’s all fine."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, thinking of what a fine morning they’d had.

If it were up to him, he’d have sent out a group text message. Infinitely faster, cleaner and, given his observations of John’s behavior these last hours, much less trying emotionally. John’s already cancelled the minister, the flowers, the cake, the hotel, the venue, the photographer, and the musicians, as Sherlock idly shook out linen napkins, flattening swans, and creating little boats instead. The fleet resembles an armada of miniature Titanics more than a wave of graceful sailboats. Fitting.

He had intended to force a discussion of this thing first thing in the morning (this nameless thing, this thing they are doing, this thing that requires John to be on the telephone all day), and had waited patiently in bed for John to wake up, passing time by breaking into John’s mobile and reading Mary’s text messages. He’d been so intent on the task that he didn’t notice that John was awake and staring at him murderously. John had lunged for the phone, they’d wrestled for it, and, Sherlock found his arms pinned to the bed beside his pillow, straddled by a naked John. And, already well aware of what made John’s breath hitch just like that, he’d stretched his neck and turned his head to the side, surrendering.

The snogging was good – aggressive, claiming, fading into languid, sensual. But snogging wasn’t going to be enough this morning, apparently, and John had straddled Sherlock’s chest, brushed the head of his penis deliberately over Sherlock’s lips, staring down at him, mouth parted, eyes on fire.

It was a ridiculous position. John squatting over Sherlock, Sherlock propped up against the headboard, John’s hand pressed against the wall above it. Sherlock had never been in any position remotely like this one, but he didn’t need instruction. John fit in his mouth as well as he’d fitted between Sherlock’s thighs that first night, drunk and wanting, on his knees . Flesh scraped lightly against his teeth, the glans pushed against the roof of his mouth, against the back of his throat. He pressed his tongue up and tasted, felt the tightness of John’s thighs beside him, how they quivered with the stress of staying upright, how John’s body _ached_ to push into him harder, to pump faster, how the restraint pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

He missed the weight and texture and whispered oaths when John pulled out ( _fuck yeah … Christ, Sherlock, your mouth is … fuck …how do you_ do _that?_ ),but this was infinitely better yet , for John was holding both their erections now, squeezing them together, and he pulled Sherlock’s hand down to cover his, and guided him through the squeeze and press and slide. They were both breathing fast, panting, arses clenching to stave off orgasm, and when they finally came, nearly together, John collapsed on top of him, and Sherlock led the kiss that followed, then fell asleep again with his head on John’s stomach, and had quite forgotten about talking at all.

And now , at five o’clock in the afternoon, John has called nearly everyone on the guest list, and he’s unraveled plans made over the course of months, and he’s out thousands of pounds, and he’s tired and if he’s having second thoughts about this _thing_ , it’s too late now to put the wedding back together.

John has decided not to marry Mary Morstan because he and Sherlock got drunk, and played a stupid game, and, in an exquisite state of inebriation, dismantled all the lies they’d taken such pains to build around themselves. John is not marrying Mary Morstan because she no longer holds his heart. John is not marrying Mary Morstan because he wants to be here at 221B instead.

Here with Sherlock.

John wants to wake up beside Sherlock, press his cock against his lips, work his hands through his curls.

These are the facts.

 _This_ is the truth.


End file.
